Stony the Road. Harold J. Recinos

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      justice and equality on these American

      tongues? What future is prepared now

      in the name of Anglo-Saxon superior

      myths? what will become of our sons

      and daughters when greedy old men

      and women are done disemboweling

      the people they call filthy illegals and

      spics?

      Blasphemy

      I saw you last night in a

      tear still talking of things

      you love, no less certain

      of the world turning ever

      so slowly in the direction

      of God, recollecting out

      loud the humblest times

      at a kitchen table sharing

      hard bread and talking of old

      women in the big church who

      pray on its steps with disfigured

      hands reaching out to heaven. I

      saw you in the tiny drop of water

      shared, in your whispered words

      telling a truth from someplace

      else you say can stop arguments

      in the world and you the whole

      time promised to take me to this

      space even before I renounced

      my blasphemy or bothered to

      kneel in the dark.

      Nieto

      on nights like this I bet you

      think it’s easy to lasso the

      stars, drag them behind you

      like a kite in the sky and in

      deep hours laugh beneath

      them until bells ring inside

      our limbs. tonight, we will

      drink the air with your first

      year breath, smile beside you

      with clear brows, confess a

      world of milk and honey and

      feel warm from this June day

      for the rest of life. on nights

      like this we will sit for hours

      with wide-mouthed flowers

      sharing perfumed smiles, with

      dreams hanging from our eyes,

      stories in two languages gushing

      from our lips and you Oliver

      will know the ancient songs

      with certainty flowing in your

      saintly blood!

      Tompkins Square

      when the moon rises

      above the rooftops I

      find time to play with

      shadows that make me

      think about meeting you

      nearly every day on the

      same bench in Tompkins

      Square park. we talked

      of abandoned tenements,

      vagabond cats singing into

      the early morning dark, new

      immigrants squatting in the

      empty buildings, the Ukrainians

      at tables on first Avenue eating

      beet borscht, the hundreds of

      hustlers on New York’s streets

      strumming guitars, entertaining

      the public with jokes or begging

      to make the next meal. you looked

      innocent on the Lower East Side,

      a foreigner still dreaming of the

      warm sun that pranced the edges

      of the rainforest, never troubled

      about having no place in the new

      world, your voice gently falling

      into me and the stars declaring

      you alive. I held your clay hand

      in mine, loved you completely

      and promised to tell the world to

      see life in your undocumented

      flesh.

      Steal Away

      I spent many hours walking

      the streets, crossing bridges

      into other boroughs at night

      to get a good look at the city

      in glimmering light, feeling

      the cool breeze brushing the

      dirt from the corduroy jacket

      given to me by an elderly Puerto

      Rican man who saw me sleeping

      alone in the basement behind

      Cookies apartment. Often, I

      went to the rooftop thinking

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